Love, Lost

Chapter 1: The Discovery

His body lies limply within the bed; protruding from the crook of his inner elbow is a needle with which he used to overdose. I am overwhelmed with a sudden sense of agony and shock at the heartbreaking sight my eyes behold...only yesterday were we planning the logistics of our wedding. And yet, with glassy brown eyes that hold a permanent and empty gaze upon the ceiling, here he lies without life. Even from my place at the threshold, I can see the purple hue of his dried lips, and I wonder for how long he has been dead. I attempt to will my legs to move, though they remain motionless, for I am utterly paralyzed with devastation.
A distraught scream sounds throughout the atmosphere, and I assume that it belongs to me, for there is nobody else around capable of producing such a devastated cry. My legs suddenly give out from beneath me, and I drop to my knees in complete horror and disbelief. Though I knew of his past in which he had struggled immensely with addiction, I assumed that he had conquered it, for he has not used — until now — in the seven years that we have been together. I know that life has been exceedingly difficult and even traumatic recently, but I believed that he was recovering from all that has happened. How could I have missed the signs that he needed more help?
Tears blur my vision and flood my face in endless streams. My body becomes overwhelmed with hysterical sobs as I struggle to make sense of this tragedy. The thought to join my fiancé in death crosses my mind, though I shake my head furiously to rid it of the idea, for I know why he turned to using again, and for that reason alone, I must seek justice for him. I must make his voice heard; he is no longer here to tell his story, so I must tell it for him.
I will myself back up to my feet and make my way over to him, the tears still streaming down my cheeks in abundance. As I draw nearer, I notice that resting next to his body is his opened journal. With trembling hands, I pick it up and read the last note he ever wrote, which is addressed to me:

Dear Temp,
I am so sorry to leave you like this. I've thought a lot about it, and I am just in too much pain. This isn't an accidental overdose — it's intentional. I'm sorry. Please know that I love you more than I've ever loved anyone. I just can't deal with the pain anymore.

My heart feels as though it has been shattered to pieces. He was not using heroin to temporarily escape the pain of his trauma — he was using it intentionally to permanently escape the pain. He committed suicide by overdosing. Why had I not seen the signs that he was suicidal? Why did he not come to me? He did not have to suffer alone; he most certainly was not a burden, and I would have gladly helped him the best I could to save his life.
An immense wave of guilt overwhelms me, and I place the journal back in its spot next to his body. Gingerly, with gentle fingers, I touch the skin of his forearm, and find that it feels relatively cold. My eyes focus on his chest in a futile hope that it still rises and falls with his breath, but it remains motionless. He really is gone.
I withdraw my phone reluctantly from my pocket and dial 911. Through a throat that is thick with tears, I explain that I have found my fiancé dead from a heroin overdose in our bedroom. Speaking to the operator about his still chest and cold skin really solidifies the fact that he has committed suicide, and it takes all the strength I can muster not to fall into hysterics while on the phone with her.
Within a minute or so, I can hear the sirens of emergency vehicles blaring in the distance. Knowing that it is our house to which they are traveling, I plant a gentle kiss upon Asher's forehead and stroke his hair for a few seconds. Into his ear, I whisper, "I love you...and I will get justice for you."
After squeezing his chilled hand, I walk out of the room, wiping furiously away at the tears that seem to never end. I seem to float to the front door — everything seems so surreal and unreal at this point. I believe that I am beginning to dissociate, but I faintly figure that it's normal, given that I have just discovered my fiancé's deceased body. Oh, what I would give — what I would do — for him to still be alive.
I unlock the front door and open it to see that the paramedics have already arrived. Shortly after them, a police vehicle pulls into the driveway as well. I direct the paramedics to the master bedroom where Asher, the greatest love of my life, took his own life. I answer the police officer's questions regarding the discovery of his body, though as I am speaking with the officer, I can feel an intense rage boiling within me. If the damned department had done their job in the first place, Asher may still be here.
Soon enough, the officer concludes that there was no foul play on my part, and Asher's body is wheeled out on a stretcher in a closed body bag to be transported to the morgue.
And soon enough, I find myself in an empty house — the same house that we bought together only two years ago and in which we planned to raise a family. That dream died along with him.
If only the department had done their job correctly and ensured justice for Asher, instead of sweeping his case under the rug...today may have been different. We would have gone on a date and continued to plan for our wedding. I would still have the love of my life.

~~~

Asher and I met a little over seven years ago when I was a young freshman in college and he was an experienced senior. We were both majoring in flute performance, and being the introvert that I am, I would have never gathered the courage to talk to him had he not taken me under his wing. Unlike me, he was a flamboyant and jovial extrovert. Covered in a plethora of colorful tattoos, he was hard to miss. What attracted me most to him were those mysterious dark eyes that turned to the color of chocolate in the sun — they were really quite beautiful.
We had already started becoming friends when we were both offered the opportunity to perform in a jazz concert by the jazz professor. Standing backstage as we waited to perform seemed to catapult our relationship, for that is the night when he asked for my number, though the intent behind the inquiry was not romantic, but platonic.
After giving him my number, he seemed bored, and twiddled with his flute. He then looked at me and flashed me a brilliant, toothy grin; his face was shaved at the time, so I could see his cute dimples quite easily. His smile made me want to melt to the floor in a puddle, but I simply blushed and smiled back.
"You know what would be cool?" He asked goofily. "You wanna know what would make this concert fun?"
"What is that?" I responded, intrigued.
"If I could have a sippy cup of vodka to bring on stage with me," Asher answered without hesitation. "That would be so fun!"
I could not help but laugh at his wild idea. I attempted to picture him performing the concert drunk off his ass, which only made me laugh harder. He seemed to find the idea comedic too, for he was laughing with me, though he — as sternly as he could through the hiccups of laughter — insisted that he was indeed serious.
"That is such a terrible idea," I finally managed to say. "But I like it. You're crazy."
"Oh, if only you knew the half of it, Temperance." He offered me another grin; I looked away as soon as I felt my cheeks growing warm with blush.
"You can call me Temp," I said, pretending to be distracted by a list of backstage rules posted on the wall. "That's what all my friends call me back home."
"Alright, then — Temp it is. And not to change the subject or anything, but I do think it is intermission, so we best be getting on stage."
"Aren't you going to bring your sippy cup of vodka with you?" I joked with a smile, turning to face him again. "You might get parched up on that stage, after all."
"Oh, shut up. If I had a sippy cup, I would! Now, let's go before we miss our set." Asher was the first to break away from the conversation, heading toward the corridor that exited out to the side of the stage where his seat was settled. Still chuckling to myself, I headed into the corridor on the opposite side of the backstage area, and let myself onto the stage.

To be continued...